Smirking
by ChampionTheWonderSnail
Summary: Crown Prince Duncan Theirin contemplates the portrait of a former monarch and realises there is more to kinging than waving a sceptre and looking regal. Drabble-fic from 'The Little Golem Boy' universe.


Yes I know I should be finishing _Wishing You Weren't Here_, but I came home one day to find Alistair, Merran and their travelling companions had packed their swimming togs and run away to Greece in a red double-decker bus, stopping intermittently to break into song and 60s dance routines. I'm still waiting for a postcard…

So while waiting for the crew to return, I thought I'd head up to Castle Theirin to check in on the twins.

Bioware owns the sandpit…Oh and just in case you're puzzled by Duncan and Bryce Theirin – they're the miracle twins Eirin and Alistair had at the end of _The Little Golem Boy_.

-oo-

**Smirking**

Hands in pockets, Duncan trudged down the long gallery, head down, passing alternatively from shadow into light as his trek took him under the stained glass windows; the mid-morning sunlight just at that perfect angle to cast long sheets of bright colour across the room. He'd been through here so many times he could name in order, all of paintings on the walls - from The Silver Knight, right through Brandel the Defeated (or 'unfortunately named', as he preferred it) to _this _one. It was the worst of the lot. Every time Duncan walked past he could feel the portrait's eyes follow him through the room. He'd tried to sneak past once, dropping down onto all fours; crawling across the long carpet in a desperate measure to avoid those eyes, but it had been impossible. The eyes had seemed to find him, no matter what he did.

Duncan could have sworn he had heard the portrait snickering at his paranoid foolishness.

When he'd been younger he'd come armed with ink pot and quill. Attempting to alter the painting so those eyes wouldn't keep watching him had earned him the worst punishment of his life. To this day he could not look at a toothbrush and privy at the same time without cringing - and he had thought at first that the lecture from his Mother had been bad enough.

As he'd grown older Duncan had attempted a more diplomatic approach, trying to make peace with the painting. Negotiating with a painted canvas had proved – inevitably – futile as clearly the portrait had not been painted to converse, even if Duncan could have sworn that the blasted thing had been enchanted to make him feel ill at ease.

He had mentioned it once and only once to his brother, who had found it hugely entertaining. After three weeks of relentless teasing, Duncan had finally fought back, earning him the second worst punishment of his life. It had been worth it though, even after all these years Bryce still flinched every time he saw a horse trough.

He'd also learned that no one seemed to be affected by this painting as he was affected by it. Bryce had merely shrugged, commenting that the perspective was slightly off, but he'd found no moving eyes, snickering and definitely no…_smirking._

Stopping at the precise spot where the painting hung, Duncan set his jaw and turned, glaring at the portrait.

"Look," he told it. "I just don't get it. How come you're picking on _me?_ Okay, I admit the moustache and beard thing might have been over the top, but you asked for it. _You_ started it first."

Duncan folded his arms, sinking his chin into his chest, looking up through the strands of blond hair that fell stubbornly across his forehead.

There had always been the inevitable comparisons. Duncan had heard them all – not that one differed in any way from the others. They were always the same, starting with _oh, don't you look like…_or _my, isn't the resemblance remarkable…_and there was his favourite one _he looks just like a Theirin, doesn't he?_ What did they expect? Considering what their father looked like, should anyone have been surprised? Did they expect him to be born with purple spots and a forked tail?

For that matter, Bryce looked like that too – admittedly with dark hair and amber eyes – but the bone structure was there and _let's face it,_ he told himself. Bryce smirks like that all the time. Usually five minutes after he thought he'd gotten away with something and ten minutes before he realises that he's left a trail that might as well have him slinging a sign over his head in big, bright lettering saying 'Yes. It was me.'

Duncan had purposely kept his hair short because of those comparisons. No braid had ever had a chance to form on his head. He'd always chosen dull or silver armour, avoiding anything that even suggested _goldiness _like the darkspawn taint. He let Bryce do the 'girls just love to play with my long, silken locks' thing. He'd even shaved all his hair off once, earning him his third most unpleasant punishment – which embarrassing as it might have been at the time – still made his point. He'd gotten exposure. Probably a bit more exposure than he'd like, learning the valuable lesson that a bald head sunburned when you spent a lot of time chopping wood on a summer's day.

Eventually, he'd gotten used to the comments about his resemblance to his predecessors. It saved people from asking who he belonged to. Of course being the son of the Heroes of Ferelden gave him another identity besides 'just another Theirin boy', except that _their _portraits didn't grin like demented custard tarts in armour.

Regarding the painting, Duncan grumbled low in his throat. It was probably because of the painting of _this _particular person that made him think he was the last person in Ferelden who should become king. The country should have had enough of blonde haired, blue eyed golden boys by now…

He was getting too tall for the King's armour anyway…It had hung on him funny, the one time he'd put it on as a dare and he couldn't get it off fast enough, feeling the weight of expectation and responsibility like a mountain on his shoulders.

Bryce had looked better in it anyway.

It wasn't as if he disliked the man - and by extension, his portrait. King Cailan had died long before either he or his brother had been born, and all Duncan had to go by were paragraphs in history books…and this portrait, smirking at him every time he came into the long gallery.

Of course, he didn't need to come here every day. Visiting the Lady was optional, but he enjoyed those visits…it was just such a huge chore having to pass by this grinning fool every time he went to her tower.

Duncan sighed. No, that wasn't fair. Cailan was not a fool…not the way the Lady described him. Not the way her eyes would shine when she spoke of him or how she would weep when she remembered his death.

"There you are…"

Duncan startled at his mother's voice, so deep in thought he had been he had not heard her footsteps across the floor. She still walked like a warrior, quick determined strides bringing her to his side. She wore her silvered hair loose today, swinging around her face like a set of orderly drapes.

"We're having brunch with your Uncle – did you forget?" she said, eyebrow raised.

Yes, he had, but he would never admit it. And never to his mother. "I was going to join you after I finished my errands," he explained, unable to meet that perceptive gaze.

"Hm," the other eyebrow rose to join the first. "What kind of errand could a crown prince be running, I wonder?"

"Princely, errandey stuff," he waved is hand vaguely in the air. "Surely, you know what _that's_ like."

"Oh, I do, most assuredly." She nodded her head in mock understanding. "I do it all the time, this princely, knight-errand stuff."

There was a distinct pause in conversation, then Duncan spoke. "You've been hanging around father too long."

"Oh you don't like that one? I thought it was pretty good, myself."

Duncan grimaced. "Hanging around father too long," he repeated firmly, finally turning to face his mother and realising with a surprised start that she'd _shrunk_. When did that happen? Had she been standing out in the rain too long?

"Well, errantry, errands or whatnot, _please_ do not miss brunch. Your Uncle wanted specifically to speak to the two of you."

"Yes mother," he said obediently.

She stared up at him a little longer, eventually reaching out to smooth a curl of hair behind his ear. It was something she hadn't done in years; not since he'd grown all his adult teeth and certainly not since he'd been able to best her with a sword.

"Mother? Are you all right?"

"Oh…it's nothing. I was just thinking how fast you and your brother have grown. Too fast, it seems." A shadow crossed her face for the briefest moment. If he'd blinked he would have missed it. "We're very proud of you, you know – you and Bryce. Your grandparents would have been so happy that the two of you have turned out so well. I know your father and I are."

"You make us sound like a couple of fruitcakes or an apple turnover," Duncan complained. "Is it so difficult just to tell us we're a couple of capital fellows? Maybe increase our allowance, just to show us how appreciated and loved we both are?"

She frowned. "I hadn't realised we gave you an allowance."

"Oh? Damn…I guess that one's not going to slip through, huh?"

"_No._"

He sighed, scowling at the portrait. _Ugh…stop laughing, you._ "So…cucumber sandwiches and tea with Uncle Fergus. I promise I won't be late. I won't turn up covered in mud, ink or chicken feathers and I'll be on my best behaviour and laugh at all his jokes."

"_Dun_can…"

"They're always funnier than father's anyway."

"Good lad." She turned to leave, caught sight of the painting on the wall and made a face. "Urgh…I hate this portrait – why did they have to put _this _one up here?"

Duncan helpfully pointed out that as the subject of the painting_ had _been the King once, like all the other portraits in the long gallery who had been – or _are –_ kings, queens or grand viziers, this was its rightful place.

"I hate it," she told him sourly. "Cailan was a good looking fellow, but this one always looks like he's _smirking _in it – and his eyes follow you around the room. _Creepy…_"

"Really?" Duncan asked her casually, but inwardly cheering. "You don't think his looking off into the distance is romantic or heroic – it doesn't appeal to your feminine side?" he added. His mother gave him 'the look'.

"Duncan," she sighed. "The man is carrying a dead ferret in his hand – why, I have absolutely no idea and how he managed to get away with it will be a mystery for all time. You Theirins are a strange lot with your odd senses of humour. You'd find mould on cheese amusing." _Hah! _Duncan thought; _this coming from a woman who can make a pun about knight errantry?_ "This picture was commissioned by Cailan – he'd probably _meant _it to be…stupid. He was like that. Anyway," she poked him in the arm. "I'm heading downstairs. I'm starving."

"You're always starving," he said automatically.

"Just don't be late – you made a promise. I'll hold you to it."

"Yes, mother."

He watched her go, her strides eating up the distance in her attempt to be as far away from the portrait of Cailan and Reclining Deceased Ferret as possible.

In her absence, Duncan regarded the painting with changed eyes. He thought the ferret had been a pet, like a mabari or a small spotted lapdog with floppy ears. He hadn't even thought it was dead until she'd mentioned it. He always thought it had been sleeping…upside down…with its tongue hanging out. He'd never actually seen a real ferret dead, sleeping or otherwise, so he'd never been able to _compare_.

"So…" he told the portrait of King Cailan. "There _is_ a reason why you're smirking."

In response, the portrait appeared to look smug.

Then…just out of curiosity, he moved over to his parents' portrait. There was father, looking kingly in the golden armour, his hand resting lightly on mother's shoulder. It was a serious picture, meant to be regal – and it was. Duncan looked more closely at the portrait, a grin slowly spreading across his face. _Trust father…_

Tucked just behind the chair leg…was a small wheel of cheese on a plate, with a cheese knife stuck into the middle of it. Mother would not even have seen it to have it ordered removed – so cleverly hidden out of sight it was - unless someone was looking very closely at the painting as he was doing now. His gaze travelled to the likeness of his mother; beautiful and serene and _not _like the battle goddess Ser Zevran addressed her as, and looking genuinely oblivious to the cheesy snack under her chair. His eyes moved up to his father's face – and yup, there is was – the Theirin smirk. _So you think you've seen cheese, have you?_ _Ha ha!_

Duncan shook his head. Moving down the line of Theirin portraits, he picked out a headless doll, a hare's foot, someone's dirty sock, a basket of flowers that – viewed at the right angle – formed a rude gesture. Even Queen Moira, the Rebel Queen – who had been painted by description – had a family of dormouse gathered around a tiny slice of cake in the shadows of the forest around her.

Brother Jervis their tutor had never mentioned any of this in his detailed lectures of the Calenhad line.

Eventually Duncan returned to the portrait of King Cailan. A dead ferret was probably going to be a difficult one to top, he thought…_but_ that was _only _if he became king…which…had yet to be decided and he wasn't about to rush into _that _one.

He smirked back at King Cailan, thinking perhaps the portrait had been trying to tell him something, all these years…but he'd been too thick-headed to work it out. It had taken someone canny like his mother – which was probably another message Cailan had been trying to tell him. Had all Theirins been fortunate enough to have been backed up by smart women? Huh…Bryce was already ahead of him there, if those sneaked, doe-eyed looks at the lovely Guerrin girl were anything to go by. He'd have to do some serious catching up.

"So," he spoke to portrait. "Thanks."

Tossing off a jaunty salute, Duncan told it, "Smirk you later…" and continued his way to the tower.

-oo-


End file.
